Mourning
by Until the End of the World
Summary: House.Stacy. It's not a real concrete plot to tell you the truth. 8 fairly short chapters with 8 song inspirations. Omniscient third person narraration for House's POV. There is a plot, but it's a sluggish one more character exploration.
1. Behind Blue Eyes

**Disclaimer: **If I owned them, Stacy would still be on the show snogging House's face off. They belong to David Shore and his minions, the cruel geniuses. "Behind Blue Eyes" lyrics belong to The Who.   
**Notes: **I'm a young writer with a fragile ego, but I like feedback good or bad. It's like crack Vicodin to me. There is a sequel to this fic that is currently in progress.

None of it was working. Not General Hospital, not his over-sized gray ball, not his gameboy, not even the monotone reverberations of indie rock, emphatic on his iPod. House was sitting in his office trying to think of _anything_ but _her_.

The moment had been perfect. And he had let it slip through his fingers. As if he had even had a choice. The kids, as gifted and well paid as they were, wouldn't have solved it in time and Fletcher would've slowly let go of the life he had so desperately been trying to fix. His wife would've never known his secret.

House smiled to himself a little then. After the infarction, he had gone over the scenario time and again in his head. His death, a small and private funeral, Stacy would've mourned him for a long time, but she would've moved on eventually; he's sure of it now. Mark was fair proof.

Well, maybe not completely fair; after all, he was still alive, to an extent; a bum leg was a little less guilt to run away from than death. But that made him consider his guilt. Was leaving Stacy completely bereft any better than leaving her with the shadow of the man she loved? Could you measure that kind of pain? Can you measure pain? The hospital tries to measure it in numbers.

House wasn't sure, even though he sure as hell knew enough about pain by now. Indubitably, the pain they had both gone through in those months after the infarction must hold its own against grief. _It was nearly grief anyway_, he thought with a touch of regret. Only they both had to go through it that way. Mourning the death of a dying relationship. He's still lamenting it, has been for five years, and now, contrary to prior assumptions, it looks like she has been too. Now, as with his leg, she has a choice; but this time, so does he. _It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. What happens when you find the love you lost?_

_You're abrasive and annoying and come on way too strong, like... Vindaloo curry. When you're crazy about curry, that's fine but no matter how much you love curry, you have too much of it, it takes the roof of your mouth off. And then you never want to see curry for a really, really long time but you wake up one day and you think... god, I really miss curry._

Her analogy ran through his head over and over again. Emotions chasing his thoughts like the beads of water that presently flowed down the window of his office. When she had said it he was lost in the moment. She had said she missed him. Lost in this sublime vindication and back in a place where his leg didn't ache and neither did his heart he had kissed her. Presently, he was hearing something else behind her words. Hesitation.

She had seen what life was like without him, she missed him, but she didn't hurt when she was with Mark. _…no matter how much you love curry, you have too much of it, it takes the roof of your mouth off._ Was that how she had felt when they were together before the infarction? If that was the case, it was never for very long. There were rough moments. With personalities like theirs there were bound to be, but the majority of their time together was happy. He was happier than he had ever been; from the way she looked at him every morning when his eyes finally opened (she always woke first) he had thought she was too. Had she been lonely? He pictured the look of disappointment when he had answered his cell phone that night. There was more disappointment there than just the loss of a potential climb up Mt. Gregory. He was used to loneliness; he imagined it to simply be something that happened every so often, no matter the situation. His mind alone isolated him from most; he had lived with loneliness for as long as he could remember. Had he lost perspective?

Could he change for her? He had tried to after the infarction. Post-surgery he was forced to stay home anyway. On the other hand, he was so angry with her then that it probably wasn't much of an effort.

He's only lying to himself. He'll never change. The thing that separates him from the world; he can't change it, it's the thing she loves most about him and it's the thing that makes her lonely. It's the thing that makes his eyes change from that deep blue color to her favorite shade of aqua. She doesn't quite know what it is and neither does he.

No one knows what it's like 

_To be the bad man, to be the sad man_

_Behind blue eyes_


	2. Happiness

**Disclaimer: **If I owned them, Stacy would still be on the show snogging House's face off. They belong to David Shore and his minions, the cruel geniuses. "Happiness" lyrics belong to Grant Lee Buffalo.  
**Notes: **I'm a young writer with a fragile ego, but I like feedback good or bad. It's like crack Vicodin to me. There is a sequel to this fic that is currently in progress. 

_Nothing. Nothing changes. I'm not going to change._

_Who asked you to?_

She did. She did every time he watched her face fall when he fucked up. When he offered his cynical outlook instead of a comforting hug. She did every time she came to his office offering him Chinese take-out when he stayed at the hospital, working on a case overnight (even when he didn't have to) instead of coming back to the apartment and lying on the couch doing nothing with her. She asked him to change every time she looked down before she came back with a stinging remark that coated over that little fracture he had made in her heart with sarcasm and wit. She asked him to change every time he couldn't make her happy.

_There's nothin' that I said  
That'll bring you happiness, happiness  
It's hard to come by I confess  
I'm bad at this thing happiness_


	3. Wake Up Dead Man

**Disclaimer: **If I owned them, Stacy would still be on the show snogging House's face off. They belong to David Shore and his minions, the cruel geniuses. "Wake Up Dead Man" lyrics belong to U2.  
**Notes: **I'm a young writer with a fragile ego, but I like feedback good or bad. It's like crack Vicodin to me. There is a sequel to this fic that is currently in progress. 

Cold and empty, that's all he felt. They said apathy was feeling nothing. If apathy was nothing he shouldn't feel this aching need to fill that hole. He wasn't sure what to fill it with. Something, anything that would fill the void.

He looked over the vast expanse of PPTH from his perch atop the roof's wall. He hated it for being so fucking beautiful that night. The sky was an impossible shade of blue against black and a solitary cloud shrouded the moon. The light reflected from a far off sun made it look like a wisp of cotton floating amidst a sea of shadow. A world that allowed for so many painful things to happen every day didn't deserve to be that striking. He wished he had a god to blame.

_Jesus, Jesus help me  
I'm alone in this world  
And a fucked up world it is too  
Tell me, tell me the story  
The one about eternity  
And the way it's all gonna be_


	4. I'm So Tired

_**Disclaimer: **_If I owned them, Stacy would still be on the show snogging House's face off. They belong to David Shore and his minions, the cruel geniuses. "I'm So Tired" lyrics belong to The Beatles.  
_**Notes: **_I'm a young writer with a fragile ego, but I like feedback good or bad. It's like crack Vicodin to me. There is a sequel to this fic that is currently in progress.

The liquid in the glass looks and smells clean; septic and mechanical, but it doesn't make him feel that way. It's Vodka. He's trying to drown his remorse in it so he doesn't do something stupid. If he's inebriated, he won't be able to dial Short Hill's area code, fuck, he won't even be able to find the phone if he gets buzzed enough.

So far, it's not going as planned. He never was a fun, carefree drunk. The vodka was only making him more somber and introspective. Just what he needs; to have 753 885-4177 run through his head more than it already has in the past hour. That's her number. Her cell phone, that's probably sitting on her kitchen table as she makes sweet, sweet love to _Mark_. Her fingers entangled in _Mark's_ hair as she cries out _Mark's_ name (instead of his) over and over and over. _Mark, Mark, Mark, _he can hear he her cry _Mark's_ name out. It's a lie she'll scream for the rest of her days. That's okay, his name might be the truth, but he knows how good white lies can feel.

The thick glass cracks against the wall when he hurls it. He's glad it didn't shatter. Squatting down on one leg to clean it up is a bitch. He goes to call her. The phone isn't on the receiver. He heads to the bedroom to find it. He forgets why he's there when he arrives. Maybe the vodka is finally cooperating with his brain. When he spots one of her hairs on his pillow, left there from their night together, he begins to tear the sheets off his bed. He'll forget her if it's the last thing he does.

He wishes he didn't start to hesitate when he caught her scent still lingering on his pillow. He wishes he could've just thrown the bedding down and been rid of her instead of collapsing like a sentimental and defeated old man into the bed and falling asleep imagining it smelled like her because she was next to him.

_I'm so tired I don't know what to do  
I'm so tired my mind is set on you  
I wonder should I call you but I know what you would do_

You'd say I'm putting you on  
But it's no joke, it's doing me harm  
You know I can't sleep, I can't stop my brain  
You know it's three weeks, I'm going insane  
You know I'd give you everything I've got  
for a little peace of mind


	5. Gone

_**Disclaimer: **_If I owned them, Stacy would still be on the show snogging House's face off. They belong to David Shore and his minions, the cruel geniuses. "Gone" lyrics belong to U2.  
_**Notes: **_I'm a young writer with a fragile ego, but I like feedback good or bad. It's like crack Vicodin to me. There is a sequel to this fic that is currently in progress.

"_They are the things that should make you the most humble, because they are not things you have earned."_ (Bono, on natural gifts; from Bono in Conversation with Michka Assayas)

Pain and white light greet him Saturday morning. Pain in his leg, his head and everywhere else too. He's entangled in his bedding and her scent. He tosses the covers away and stares up at the ceiling and wonders where it doesn't smell like her. He sits up and spots the phone on the bedside table. So that was how he ended up here. He had to get out of his house. Everything in it reminded him of her right now.

He slowly got up. He'll never get over how much of a chore it is just to get out of bed in the mornings. He's got to drag the remains of his leg out to the side, set it in position, then slowly put his weight on his left leg as he grips his cane. He knows where the blame rests for this. Then again, it's easier to climb out of bed than it is to climb out of a coffin.

If he believed in all that new age bullshit, he'd say it was karma. Drink your tea every morning, feel the Chi flow through you as you contort your body into irregular positions during $50 Yoga classes, the whole shebang made him sick. Everything else he could explain away, but karma, it seemed to be everywhere. You just had to wait for it.

For the longest time, everything seemed to come easy to him. He didn't know why and he didn't care. High school, college, medical school, girls, most of his cases; none of it took much effort on his part. Then it all seemed to catch up with him five years ago.

He wonders how karma has caught up with Stacy. He can't think of anything. She's still beautiful, she loves her job and she's got a husband that will do whatever it takes for her to be happy. He wonders if he's her punishment. Though Mark loves her completely, she'll never be able to give back to him all the way because part of her is somewhere else. It's in his apartment, it's in PPTH and it's in him. He hopes that hurts her as much as it hurts him; having a chunk of yourself taken out scars in more way than one.

If it's karma that's after him, he feels his dues have been paid. Suffering through the pain of an infarction, living with half a leg and pushing away the best thing that ever happened to him twice because of it was more than debt re-paid in his opinion. Why didn't she just let him die? She's got lots of reasons for that, but that's not what he's after. Maybe he should've died; maybe karma was supposed to finish him off. Maybe he's still paying up now because Stacy let him live. If he's got half a life now when he was supposed to lose all of it on the table, he's got a lot coming to him.

If karma wants him, it's going to have to catch him first. He might have a bum leg, but he can still outrun an unseen force. He gets up, showers and throws a few items into a knapsack. He grabs his jacket and locks up the apartment. The motorcycle gives a satisfying roar as starts it up. It's 7 AM on Saturday morning and the world is still quiet save for the cripple on his bike. The sun is behind him, the world whips by, quieted by the dull hum of the motor and for now, he feels free.

_You get to feel so guilty, got so much for so little  
Then you find that feeling just won't go away  
You're holding on to every little thing so tightly  
Till there's nothing left for you anyway_

Goodbye, you can keep this suit of lights  
I'll be up with the sun  
I'm not coming down  
I'm not coming down  
I'm not coming down

You wanted to get somewhere so badly  
You had to lose yourself along the way  
You change your name but that's okay, it's necessary  
And what you leave behind you don't miss anyway

Goodbye, you can keep this suit of lights  
I'll be up with the sun  
I'm not coming down  
I'm not coming down  
I'm not coming down

And I'm already gone  
Felt that way all along  
Closer to you every day  
Didn't want it that much anyway

You're taking steps that make you feel dizzy  
Then you get to like the way it feels   
You hurt yourself, you hurt your lover  
Then you discover what you thought was freedom was just greed

Goodbye, no emotional goodnight  
We'll be up with the sun  
Are you still holding on  
I'm not coming down  
I'm not coming down

Gone  
Sun  
Done  
Sun  
Gone  
Sun  
Done  
Sun  
Sun


	6. Photo Booth

_**Disclaimer: **_If I owned them, Stacy would still be on the show snogging House's face off. They belong to David Shore and his minions, the cruel geniuses. "Photo Booth" lyrics belong to Death Cab for Cutie.  
_**Notes: **_I'm a young writer with a fragile ego, but I like feedback good or bad. It's like crack Vicodin to me. There is a sequel to this fic that is currently in progress.

Aside from west, House has no idea where he's going. Short Hills is east, but he'll never ride in that direction again. He's never been to her home in Short Hills and he never wants to. He never wants to see how much she's moved on. Never underestimate the power of denial.

Oh, but what he would have given to have her address five years ago. When she finally left, he had wanted her out. He'd been expecting it in fact, even pushing for it. Two days after she drove away with as many of her belongings stuffed into her Toyota as she could fit, he was tearing apart the apartment for any clue as to where she had gone. Calling her parents, Cuddy, Wilson (he told them he only wanted to know so he could return some things she'd left here, he was too proud to admit he had seriously screwed up the best thing in his life) but nobody knew.

There was no going back this time. Before this, the thought of himself showing up on a woman's doorstep awkwardly proffering flowers and an apology had never even crossed his mind. He had never even been in a florist's as a matter of fact. Stacy had always been happy enough to take him back before. Every fight before, he knew beforehand that she'd take him back. He'd never had to bother with flowers.

If that and more was what it would take to get her back, he had been willing to hold a few florists at gunpoint for all the roses in Princeton. Not this time though. No taking her into his arms and not saying anything aloud as he thanked all the Gods he didn't believe in for making her see something in him. No letting her playfully hit him for putting them through hell. No make-up sex and no more Stacy.

For a while, he thought she might come back. The months passed by, lonely and slow. After four months he gave up hope. That was when Wilson started to notice the change. House no longer wanted to do _anything_. He lost weight because he never ate more than a meal a day and he only ate that much because he knew he had to, not because he ever felt hungry anymore. He never felt anything anymore, only pain (which he took away with Vicodin) and the presence of that gaping hole deep inside him.

Eventually, though those two things were still constants in his life, he adjusted. He learned to like taking his pills and though the hole was never filled, he at least no longer sat on the edge of it, willing himself to give up and jump down that bottomless pit inside himself. Now he was back on the edge. These past few months, as he and Stacy had become reacquainted with each other; he had dared to walk closer and closer to the edge of that hole. When he finally thought he was going to slip and fall into the depths of the blackness, he discovered it was no longer there. She had filled it. Then he realized that as good as it felt to be whole again, he couldn't keep her down there with him. She didn't deserve that.

A bed and breakfast pulled into view on his right. Calvin's Cottage read the sign. House rolled his eyes at the alliteration. If he wasn't desperate he might've kept going. His leg was aching and the rest of his lower half was numb from the ride. He parked his bike up beneath an overhang on the side of the building and clambered off, taking his knapsack with him.

"One room, bottom floor, two nights." House said as he held out the required amount.

"That'll be $75 a night, but if you stay an extra day the third is half off," coughed the old man behind the desk. He had a long face with a white beard, he had green eyes and looked like he was ready for the quiet life Fulton seemed to offer. House could tell from his look and smell that he was a heavy smoker, probably not far from cancer, but his demeanor suggested he didn't much care either.

"And if I wanted to stay three nights I'd be holding out more than $150 right now. However, if you put your glasses on and squint really hard, I think the only thing you'll find is Mr. Franklin and his gay lover Mr. Grant. By Gosh! It's almost … it's almost like I meant what I said _the first time_." The old man did not find House amusing and responded only by taking the cash, setting the keys on the counter and glaring silently.

House checked the number on the room key and wandered back into the long hallway. The door creaked when he opened it. He looked around. It was a typical country room, completely bereft of any true authenticity or antiquity, but trying darned hard to exploit the tourists and convince them they were experiencing the true country life off the side of a highway. He tossed down his knap sack and shed his leather jacket. Well, it was better than his apartment. He was pretty sure Stacy had never been here in her life. She was way too attracted to the city life to come near a place like Fulton.

Bed and Breakfasts weren't her thing. No, it was a hotel or drive back the same night for her. He tried not to let the flood of all the times he had spent in hotel rooms with her into his mind, he had come here to forget her, not to remember her. They came anyway.

Their weekend trip to New York, Christmas 1997, neither of them had wanted to spend Christmas with their families, so Stacy pretended she had big legal business in the city over Christmas and _of course_ House couldn't leave her alone over this special holiday, or at least that's what he told his mother. They spent Christmas Eve wandering around the city. Neither of them was truly Christian, even though she insisted on wearing that cross, but they liked the excuse to celebrate. They drank coffee while looking up at the tree in Rockefeller Center at 3 AM while most of the world slept. The Waldorf Astoria had a Jacuzzi tub. They made good use of it when they came back in from the cold.

Nashville, Tennessee, 1996, meet the parents. A room at an upper class bed and breakfast that she called "cozy" and he called cramped. She figured if she only exposed him to her parents for periods of two hours maximum at a time they could avoid serious conflict. It worked. The worst one he let slip was after a few drinks. Her father had said something about how he would just love to meet his parents too. Bringing up his dad was never a good idea.

"Why, so you can put better judgment on his son? Here, I'll save you some trouble: my father is an all-American, red-blooded ex-marine. Yeah, I'm _just_ like him, I don't care about anything you've got to say because I've seen worse in the war. Oh wait! I've never been in a war! Wow, what excuse do I have for being such a son of a bitch now?" The silence that ensued afterwards seemed endless. He was lucky Stacy's dad was even-tempered and Stacy was a lawyer. "Dad, I know Greg and I've met his father. 'Son of a bitch' fits neither … most of the time" she said the last part with a meaningful glance that begged him to shut- up before he screwed everything up that night. Realizing Mr. Jameson didn't deserve the invective he had just spewed at him, he settled for moody silence for the rest of the evening.

She had been pissed when they got back to the room that night. "What the hell was that about, Greg? If you had told me you had some sort of daddy issues I would've told them not to bring it up! My dad makes simple small talk and you bite his head off? I'm sure he really does think you're a son of a bitch now!"

"Why does it matter to you? Why do I need some sort of stamp of approval from your parents? I didn't force you on a pilgrimage to meet mine!"

She gave an exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes before answering. "No, you didn't even acknowledge their existence before I answered the phone and it was your mom on the other end of the line. 'Oh, hello, Mrs. House! Who am I and why am I in your son's apartment? Well, I don't know if he told you about me, but we've only been living together for the past three months.' Do you have any idea how awkward that was for me? I don't know why you hate your parents so much and I don't need to, but I want you to know I don't hate mine. It's not about getting their approval, Greg. I just want them to like you, because I … like you… no, I love you. I just wanted them to see why."

It was the first time either of them had just come out and said it. They'd only been together for six months. Everything was moving very fast, but it felt right when she slowly moved her things over bit by bit and just started sleeping there every night. Just like it felt right when they lay together, entwined into a perfect fit watching TV on the couch. Still, neither of them formally recognized it until just then. Both had been too afraid to scare the other by saying it. Now she'd laid her cards on the table, it was his move.

He walked over to her. She was sitting on the bed with her head down. She knew the implications of what she had just said. He sat down on the bed and leant in close tucking some of her hair behind her ear, "I love you," he whispered. "That's all anyone else needs to know."

She turned her head to face him, giving him a glare. "You had to wait until I was yelling at you to tell me?" she said as she shoved him down on the bed, her glare breaking and turning into a wide smile. "You know how turned on I get when you're pissy. I'll do anything if it means you get pissy _and_ I get pissy sex," he answered, trying to conceal his grin.

"Did I ever tell you that I think you're a manipulative bastard?"

"Ooh, say it aga ---" he didn't get to finish the sentence. Having her tongue in his mouth made it rather hard to form words … or coherent thoughts. He rolled her over and started working his way down her neck with light kisses while grinding against her. She was moaning and his only thought was to find the quickest possible way he could get her out of her clothes. Shoes seemed like a good starting point. Yes, you had to get the shoes off if you wanted the pants off those fabulous legs. He came up for air and scooted back on the bed to slip her shoes off. He was just getting her jeans off when she seemed to decide that he had a ridiculously unfair lead on her where clothing was concerned.

As soon as her jeans were tossed to the floor she got up on her knees on the bed, gently biting his lower lip while her hands worked at his belt buckle. Soon, her hands were going places and doing things to him that made his head spin. "Wow, I have _got_ to manipulate you more often," he drawled out when she began to unbutton her blouse, making a show of it. "Does that mean I have to bring you to meet my parents more often?" She was lying there naked, waiting for him. "If it ends up like this, yes," were the last words he said that night. Well, the last coherent ones.

Washington D.C. 1999, just before the infarction, one of her cases. They spent too much money on a swanky hotel room for two days. They were both earning more than enough then. He doesn't remember much about that trip. Everything surrounding the infarction, both before and after is a little blurry. That's what happens when your mind can't stand thinking about an event any longer. He's got a reminder of one thing he remembers clearly. Squeezing into a cheap photo booth for tourists near the Washington Monument. They let the lens play voyeur to their love. The photo strip is folded up in a corner of his wallet only he knows exists. Once in a while he takes it out for a look. He's holding it in his hand now, willing himself to tear it into pieces for the thousandth time this week, but he still can't do it. He folds it back up into its well-worn creases and slips it back into his wallet. It's hard to run away from your past when you're carrying it with you.

_I remember when the days were long  
and the nights when the living room was on the lawn.   
Constant quarreling, the childish fits  
and our clothes in a pile on the ottoman.  
All the slander and double speak were only foolish attempts  
to show you did not mean,  
anything but the blatant proof was your lips touching mine in the photo booth._

And as the summers ending

_the cool air will rush your hard heart away.  
You were so condescending,  
and this is all that's left  
scraping paper to document.  
I've packed a change of clothes and it's time to move on._

Cup your mouth to compress the sound,  
skinny dipping with the kids from a nearby town.  
And everything that I said was true  
as the flashes blinded us in the photobooth.  
Well I lost track and then those words were said,   
you took the wheel and you steered us into my bed,  
and soon we woke and I walked you home  
and it was pretty clear that it was hardly love.

And as the summers ending,  
the cool air will rush your hard heart away.  
You were so condescending,  
and this is all that's left, scraping paper to document.  
I've packed a change of clothes and it's time to move on.

And as the summers ending,  
the cool air will rush your hard heart away.  
You were so condescending,  
as the alcohol drained the days.  
And as the summers ending,  
the cool air will rush your hard heart away.  
You were so condescending.  
And this is all that's left,   
The empty bottles spent cigarettes, so pack a change of clothes  
'cause its time to move on.


	7. Stuck in a Moment

_**Disclaimer: **_If I owned them, Stacy would still be on the show snogging House's face off. They belong to David Shore and his minions, the cruel geniuses. "Stuck in a Moment You Can't Get Out of" lyrics belong to U2.  
_**Notes: **_I'm a young writer with a fragile ego, but I like feedback good or bad. It's like crack Vicodin to me. There is a sequel to this fic that is currently in progress.

January 2006, an airport hotel in Baltimore. He could still taste the most bittersweet kiss of his life on his lips. Bitter because he had no control over it and he knew it probably wouldn't lead them down any good road, sweet because of how good her lips tasted on his, how it felt to touch her again, to hold her; rediscover the sensation that was Stacy Jameson. Fuck, no, Stacy Warner. That's what it is now. Just accept it. What will be will be. What will be should be and everyone else is a coward for not facing the blunt, honest truth.

At least that's what he tries to tell himself, the rule he tries to live by. Sometimes it doesn't work so well though, especially when he's got Wilson around to tell him to his face what his conscience is trying to say through the suppression of his ego. Wilson tells him he's a coward, and he's right. He tries to tell himself that it was some great sacrifice, an act of chivalry, that she'd be lonely with him; but he's just a coward. He's a coward too unwilling to change because he's afraid of it, too afraid to be human.

"_God, I really miss curry."_

That was the moment he knew. He had been trying to get there for the five months before that moment. No, longer than that, much longer. Try the past five years. For the past five years he had wondered how she really felt about him. They had been in love, happier than both of them ever thought they could be. Even with the loneliness, the fights, the infarction, even when he pushed her away, said he was glad as she walked out the door, he didn't understand it.

They were cynics, he took cynicism to an entirely new level, for him to fall in love was practically hypocrisy, but when they were together House felt he could be in love. He was still a bastard and she probably still felt lonely sometimes, he was bad at that thing, happiness. But he could be tender, loving and everything everyone else never thought he could be too. She let him, because she already expected it. She understood him. She could match him; a biting accusation thinly veiled as curiosity from him was met with a stinging remark from her.

_"Two people who weren't meant to be together. Maybe they'll get a happy ending just because they both want it so much."_

_"Yeah, that's usually the way it works."_

But from Stacy, there was always something else hidden behind what she said. House's bitter accusations were usually just a way for him to confirm what he thought he had so cleverly figured out. They exposed the person's faults, they made them real to him, brought them down to his reality, where everyone lies, people make mistakes, and no one loves you just the way you are. From Stacy, there was no judgment made, just an open-ended statement that always left House wondering more. He loved that, he loved her, and she loved him, he never thought he'd need love from someone, but then he never knew how much he needed her until she was gone.

_"He loved her enough to convince himself he could change."_

_"But he couldn't, could he?"_

When she couldn't take it anymore, she left. She didn't want to, she just didn't have a choice. She still loved him, but he acted like he didn't love her anymore. There was no room for her in his life anymore. He worked, he took his pills, he went to physical therapy, he slept, but all he did to Stacy was push her away.

Then she came back. She was married, and it looked like she loved Mark, but not the same way she had once loved him. When he saw her again he realized that the hole he had been feeling within himself still ached. Part of him was still with her. He had to know if part of her was still with him. That night, he knew.

_"God, I really miss curry."_

He looked into her eyes then. She still loved him. He felt every emotion he'd ever experienced come rushing back to him, the hole inside him filled with it. In his mind's eye he can see the light coming over the balcony of the hospital's roof, flooding everything with light on a summer morning as he sits there with her in the glory of the sunrise, that moment forever preserved in his mind. That's how he felt in Baltimore.

Everything was wrapped up into one glance, everything understood, and everything forgiven. She looked down then, she was supposed to feel this way for Mark, but she knew she didn't.

He lifted a hand to her chin, lifted her head until she faced him once more. His eyes, capable of stopping her heart with one glance, they still did, but it wasn't just their piercing blue quality, it was everything behind them. He let his hand drop to her side and raised his eyebrows, letting her know that he saw the same depth in her eyes.

_"You're a jerk."_

_"I know."_

These things are said with smiles. This is how it's always been between them. And in Baltimore, in the hotel, locked in their own private snow globe, that's how it was. He leant in to kiss her. It wasn't rushed, it was savored, both were aware that the moment would fade but they wanted to _live _it first. Their lips were reacquainted with each other. She had to reach up to his lips as he leant down. They came apart only to come together again, she reached an arm up to hold him. He leant back, and she's wasn't sure why.

_"If you hadn't just had a fight with Mark..."_

She grabbed his face in her hands, with a force that made him look straight into her eyes.

_"For once in your life, will you shut-up?"_

Then they were right back to where they were. Existing only for that moment in time. The need was stronger this time though, they embraced, felt every part of each other they could at once, their lips no longer explored but pressed to each other, closing the distance between them. The smell of her was intoxicatingly exquisite. It brought the good memories of their life together rushing back to him and it only made him love her more than he did already. She could feel his stubble under her fingers as she stroked his jaw like she always had when they kissed before, the feeling is tantalizing to her skin and it made her want to freeze all time right there and make every moment like that.

His phone rang. It made time move forward, brought her one step closer to losing that moment. She put her hands behind her head in frustration only to bring them back to his arms, to him, to what she longed to touch most of all, his arms surrounding her in an embrace, that was all she wanted. So she reached back up to him, desperately trying to re-capture what was rapidly slipping away.

He reached for the phone, wishing it would stop ringing and reality would just _go away_.

_"House."_

She leant back, allowing that to happen, but she could only hold onto their moment for so long. He looked back into her eyes as he talked into the phone. She took that as her cue to encourage him to get off the phone while he still could, she used to always try that -- if the patient wasn't critical it worked sometimes. She tugged at his shirt; she caressed his chest, moved closer all the time. She was back in for a kiss and he leant down to touch her lips with his once more in between words. The case didn't sound like it was going well, she despaired and leant her head against his chest while he talked, inhaled his scent and reveled in being so close to him again. He made an attempt to get off the phone, and he was about to put it down and forget everything but her again. He held the phone away as they kissed once more.

_"He was trying to tell us something!"_

He was hesitant to let that kiss go. It could've never happened again, and he never wanted that to happen, he never wanted it to end. He looked into her eyes. He could hear his heart beating in his chest as time slowed.

_"I know that limp. I know the empty ring finger. And that obsessive nature of yours, that's a big secret. You don't risk jail and your career just to save somebody who doesn't want to be saved unless you got something, anything, one thing. The reason normal people got wives and kids and hobbies, whatever. That's because they don't got that one thing that hits them that hard and that true. I got music, you got this. The thing you think about all the time, the thing that keeps you south of normal. Yeah, makes us great, makes us the best. All we miss out on is everything else. No woman waiting at home after work with the drink and the kiss, that ain't gonna happen for us."_

When he came back from his thoughts it hadn't been that long, it hadn't been the eternity of moments that he thought he must've spent agonizing over that very fact. Against everything his mind and body screamed to him, he stepped away. Coward.

She sat down on the bed. The moment was lost, but she accepted it. She always does. This was part of him. There is something inside him that comes before her. That hurts more than he could ever know, because when they are together, she knows that he is first in her heart. She doesn't understand why, and she doesn't need to, because it's part of what makes him who he is. The one.

_I will not forsake the colors that you bring  
Bu, the nights you filled with fireworks  
They left you with nothing  
I am still enchanted by the light you brought to me  
I still listen through your ears  
And through your eyes I can see_


	8. Your Legs Grow

_**Disclaimer: **_If I owned them, Stacy would still be on the show snogging House's face off. They belong to David Shore and his minions, the cruel geniuses. "Your Legs Grow" lyrics belong to Nada Surf.  
_**Notes: **_I'm a young writer with a fragile ego, but I like feedback good or bad. It's like crack Vicodin to me. There is a sequel to this fic that is currently in progress.

He dreamt of the infarction again that night. He's been having this one a lot lately. The increase in leg pain (he can't be sure, there are plenty of reasons he could be experiencing increased pain, but he thinks it's because he's building up a tolerance to the Vicodin, it doesn't work so well anymore) likes to find a nice match in his psyche.

It's always the same dream. He makes the same decision, but she doesn't. He sweats out the poison flowing through his veins and he survives. Just like he was so convinced he would.

In his dream, he wakes up from the chemically induced coma to a blurred confusion. He doesn't know where he is and it's too bright for him to take a good look around yet. It smells like antiseptic, plastic, latex, illness, urine, sweat, dried blood, and death. He knows that smell … the hospital, that's where he is. Then the events of the hellish past two days come rushing back to him, startling him enough to make him open his eyes. His eyes take in light blue sheets and curtains, white walls, and blinking machinery under harsh fluorescent lighting. He shuts his eyes quickly. They've been closed for so long that the light is hard on his eyes.

He doesn't see Stacy but he can smell her perfume in the air. His leg is intact and it still hurts. It's not as excruciating as before, but some morphine would be nice if he could get it. "Stacy …" he wants to hold her again, reassure her, maybe affectionately rub it in her face that he was right again, and ask her to get a nurse to administer some morphine. "Stacy?" When he again receives no reply, he slowly opens his eyes and lets them adjust to the light. She's not in the room, but her coat is; that must be what's giving off the perfume. She hasn't been able to shower for a few days. She's probably been applying it liberally to cover up any smell.

He'll have to convince some nurse to up his morphine himself. Maybe he'll get lucky and get a young one who he can scare into it. The experienced ones can tell when a patient just wants to make himself more comfortable from the ones who really _need_ the addictive opiate. He presses the call button several times and waits, but no one comes. "My girlfriend's a lawyer! I can sue you for being negligent you know!" he yells out into the hall. There's still no nurse coming to check on him; there's something wrong here.

It's probably not a good idea, but he does it anyway. He sits up and hastily disconnects himself from the IV and several monitors. He slowly swings his legs over the side of the bed and tests them, one at a time on the cold floor. Whichever idiot he runs into first is going to have a lot of questions to answer. His right leg supports some weight, but he's not going on any long walks soon either. There's a wheelchair next to the empty bed next to him. It doesn't look like it'll be missed if he takes it.

He wheels himself into the hall. No wonder no one immediately rushed to check on him when he threatened legal action – the nurse's station is abandoned. It's eerily quiet out here too, up until then he had assumed PPTH had actually soundproofed their patient rooms, the place did look swank enough to afford that. But no, the whole floor is silent. He can't hear a sound save for his own breath, which is coming in shorter and quicker gasps than he likes.

Nothing is right about this situation. Nothing makes sense. House searches his brain for reasons why he could be the only patient left on the floor. He can't come up with anything, especially with this distracting pain in his leg. He pushes the button for the elevator three times before it finally opens. He pushes his way in and presses 'L' for the lobby. The soft ding of the bell snaps him out of his worried state. Another abandoned floor greets him.

He checks the cafeteria – empty. But wait, there's laughter coming from the patio. House rushes toward the sound of people. Wilson and Cuddy are sitting there having lunch, acting casual as hell, as if the whole hospital is not completely abandoned.

"What? She just grabbed her purse and left?" Wilson says, his eyebrows rise as he takes a bite out of his turkey sandwich. He looks tired.

A stressed-looking Cuddy swallows her spoonful of yogurt, "I went in to do the last check-up. I told her that everything looked well and he would be waking up within the hour. You _know_ how lucky he is to have survived this. I told her that she should be happy, because the chances of him making it out of this alive and fully limbed were so slim. She gave me the most tortured look; I could tell the decision was just tearing her apart. She said 'He would've died… He would've left his entire life … left me… just to keep his damn leg.' She asked me if I thought he really believed that he thought he would make it out of this…"

"What did you say?" Wilson is getting upset because Cuddy isn't getting to the point. House knows it must fuck with Wilson's mind to realize that he and Stacy aren't the couple that survives everything.

"I told her … I told her that he knew the numbers better than anyone, and the numbers aren't good. I didn't know it was going to make her leave."

"Just because the numbers aren't good doesn't mean he didn't believe he could make it through this. And look, he did, he was right, just like he always is."

"House is not God. He's just lucky as hell."

"No, he's not. Because you know what? He doesn't have much to come back to anymore. You shouldn't have told Stacy what you did. You just confirmed all her worst fears – that Greg House, the ultimate narcissist, cares about himself more than he cares about her and he only refused the surgery because he couldn't deal with being crippled."

"How do you know that's not the reason he refused it?" Cuddy had guilt ridden all over her face, but she wasn't about to take all the blame for this.

"Because I've seen House without Stacy. And he's just as crippled." Wilson let his features soften when he saw Cuddy's guilt. This wasn't all her fault, even if she was the catalyst. He gave a sigh and said, "I better go up to his room. He'll be awake soon." Wilson got up from the table and went to throw the rest of his lunch in the trash. That was when he saw House sitting there in doorway, his face set in stone, revealing nothing.

"House!" Wilson went bug eyed and dropped the bag of Doritos he was holding. House would've found his reaction amusing if he hadn't just overheard that conversation.

"So, where is everyone?" House squints at the bright sunlight and looks around at all the empty tables.

"What do you mean?"

House gestures around at the empty patio incredulously. "Hello! Empty hospital …" House spreads his arms out with his palms up, once again pointing out the emptiness.

"House, everyone's here."

That's where the dream ends. House wakes up in a bed at Calvin's Cottage wondering what it all means. He thinks about the subject a lot … what would've happened if she had left his leg alone? He's starting to understand why only Wilson and Cuddy are left in the dream too. They're the only ones left in his life who seem to understand him, the only ones he can stand talking to. It doesn't matter if everyone else is there. He doesn't care about them and they don't care about him, so why should they litter his subconscious? And Stacy … would she have left him if she felt that way? He cuts up his leg and she leaves him and if he keeps his leg she leaves him; there's no winning. Or maybe there's just no winning if you decide to give up.

_If you were here  
baby we'd increase the dose  
there was no fear  
in my room when we got close  
call me anytime you've got a ghost_

you're the only person in the world  
I feel that way about  
and if you move off to the side

_I'll get swept back out  
where it's cold but not that deep  
'cause your legs grow  
cold but not that deep  
'cause your legs grow_

there's a light that rises up  
from the bottom of the lake  
and its beam has hit me hard  
now I'm wide awake  
where it's cold but not that deep  
'cause your legs grow  
cold but not that deep  
'cause your legs grow

if you were here  
baby we'd increase the dose  
there was no fear  
in my room when we got close  
call me anytime you've got a ghost


End file.
